


Almond Oil

by WraithWriter



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, But definitely containing mature themes, Crown of Midnight, Gen, Heir of Fire, Hurt, Kingdom of Ash, Lysandra's bidding, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Queen Of Shadows, Sarah J. Maas - Freeform, Throne of Glass, Tower of Dawn, empire of storms, not explicit, the assassin's blade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 12:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20582348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WraithWriter/pseuds/WraithWriter
Summary: The assassin queen was not the first to receive the gift, neatly packaged and sickly sweet.





	Almond Oil

The scent of it was suffocating.

Cloying.

Heady.

Relentless in its clawing through her nose, down her throat, coiling slow and slimy in her gut.

Her going price alone was enough to provoke the envy of every other courtesan in the establishment. To draw the notice of the King of Assassins is to court success, and to secure his patronage is priceless.

These are the thoughts that she forces through her mind as she rubs the oil along her neck and arms. Down her breasts and stomach. Over her legs. Between them.

How Clarisse had cooed as she brushed her hair that night.

_ My dove. _

She’d brought her sheafs of silk, hot tea with cream and sugar, doting on the pretty child who had proved to be _ such _ a lucrative investment.

_ My pet_.

She has already grown accustomed to belonging to everyone but herself.

_ My Lysandra. _

She mourns the girl of many skins trapped in one she did not own.

That girl had been taught how to smile and simper, to play the part of the coy virgin, doe-eyed and defenseless.

They taught her how to gasp and curl her fingers into the sheets, how to breathe through her nose when her throat was otherwise occupied.

She was taught how to read lidded eyes and stuttered breath, how to tilt her hips and arch her back _ just so _.

There were some things she had needed to learn on her own, though.

How to not seize up at the brush of lips or fingertips.

How to let the moans and whimpers fall from her tongue like honey when she felt venom and sobs and screams.

How to wither until she was but a beautiful husk.

How to disappear.

How to not pull away or flinch instinctively or lash out with the force of every wild thing snarling, hissing, roaring in her veins.

He is the courtly fox, slipped of his leash and how she wishes she had claws of her own.

He is all saccharine sweetness and soft caresses, but she knows how the game is played. So when he sheds the skin of civility, she tells herself she is prepared for the ways in which he takes.

And takes.

And takes.

She has no choice but to give.

  


The purpling bruises are brands on her hips. They are grotesque rosebuds, flowering in deepest violet and richest blue. She is acutely aware of them the next day as she taunts the assassin come to settle debts.

The dagger strikes the wall a hair’s breadth from her head and she finds herself wishing the girl hadn’t such precise aim.

When servants come to clean the shattered glass and tend to the cuts on her hands, Clarisse chastises her sharply.

_ Stupid, clumsy girl. _

Fragrance is thick in the air of the cramped room, but satisfaction sparks faintly in her.

_ Wasteful, worthless girl. _

All she can think, though, is that the blood running down her fingers and pooling on her gown would match the stain on his sheets.


End file.
